Looking for Gentry part 7 conclusion
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Looking For Gentry (part 3) free porn video
I like to think I've been around, but I'd never seen a place quite like it
-- not that it was quite the way she painted. Men, yes. Mostly men, all
men, I wouldn't swear. Football blaring on the TV above the bar, fans
watching glumly. In the corners, couples chatted; if there was more, I
didn't see it. Some wore suits, and some wore jeans. The crew cut kids,
some of them not kids anymore, she said, were from the Navy Base, on the
hustle.
The bartender glared. He was a big man, dark-haired and angry. He'd never
fixed his broken nose, he was the kind of guy who'd never see the need,
who didn't mind the message sent. I felt menaced in a way I'd never felt
before, trying to pump another someone playing tough guy in a seedy bar.
He propped his fists, knuckles down, on the bar, leaned heavily and said
he didn't recall a Gentry, barely glancing at the battered photo I had set
down on the polished wood. Lots of people came, he might notice, maybe
not, he said, waiting for us to go away.
She asked for drinks.
"You the sister? Wife?" the bartender asked. "You know who comes here? Why
they do?"
He pushed the drinks, daiquiri, gimlet, over, splashing mine.
"You don't want me to remember, that's what I always tell *em. Here, let's
try this: Sometimes a guy will wander in to catch the game. Have a drink
or two. It takes a while, sometimes, before things dawn on him. I run the
credit card, he wanders off. That can happen -- so I say. So I always say.
Enjoy the drinks: the booth back there is free."
I wanted out, but she wanted to stay a bit, and led the way back to the
half-moon-shaped booth. She slid in first, I followed. The vinyl seat was
low, I tugged my skirt. A crew cut kid -- not quite a kid, now that I got
a second look, now that I took a second look, an eyelids-lowered, out-
from-under look -- across the way flashed a wolfish grin.
Our eyes met.
It was as if I touched a live electric wire. I got that unnerving pulse of
humming danger, a tingling -- no, more than that, a surge that traveled up
my spine, that made my knees and elbow tremble.
I can't say how long we looked into each other's eyes. A big guy, six
inches on me. A face that looked a little worn, but not worn out. The
lines around his eyes looked as if he liked to smile, his chin and nose
too blunt to be called handsome. Well, maybe for some to call him
handsome. His stomach flat, biceps that stretched sleeves tight. I felt a
flush of something warm rise to my face, my hand toyed with my hair,
unconsciously. When we broke our gaze, I saw his eyes drop slowly down my
front and to my legs. I felt my skirt ride up, or thought I did, and
tugged. I knew he kept on looking.
Then, a older man approached him, a pin-striped suit back cut us off. Time
for business.
I didn't want to, knew I had to, think about what that steady look of his
meant. What my gaze back did. I tried to shrug the thought away, regroup,
gather myself in, close up. I wrenched right leg over left, awkward in the
tight space of the booth, but managed to hook knees and as I tugged again,
saw that the man in pinstripes slip closer to the sailor's side. But the
sailor kept his eyes fixed on me.
I don't think I've ever before been skewered that way by someone else's
gaze, pinned like a butterfly on cork, a flash of color someone needs to
capture and to hold, trapped like doe startled from grazing green grass in
a tree fringed glade, unable to bolt away, unwilling even to glance away.
Maybe it was fear that held my eyes to his, that froze me, as my heart
raced.
Maybe it was something else that I felt pierce me, cleave me, pin me
there, still as a woman caught by a new man's firey desire, trembling.
Maybe.
We sipped our drinks, and watched the couples chat, a hand get patted. I
saw the two of them negotiate and felt halfway relieved, halfway something
else when I saw him steal another glance as they went out the door. I
wondered if it could have been me walking out the door with him, if I
wanted something different to have happened. I wondered what it would be
like to be the center of his attention, at how just a look across a
crowded bar could make me yearn for more.
I wanted him.
I couldn't keep myself from watching as he left, so it was Bobbie who saw
the tall guy first, talking to the bartender, then glance our way,
approach. She nudged, nodded in his direction. I put him over six feet
tall, flat-hipped, not slim, not heavy. Coat-and-tie, as fancy as the
sailor's fancy-man, but as if he'd come straight from work, he seemed in
that much of a hurry. His hair, like Bobbie's, had that sun-bleached look,
his eyes were pale, calculating.
"Hey there," he said, his voice bluff, trying to sound hearty. "Join you?"
He slid along the seat, pressed close beside me, before either one of us
had said a word.
"Looking for someone, I hear," he said. "Maybe I can help?"
I tried to ease away, his leg touched mine. If he didn't feel it, I sure
did.
"We're looking for a guy named Gentry," Bobbie muttered, eyes down, as if
she was afraid to look him in the eye. She was subdued, wary, in a way I
had not seen in her before. I wondered, was it something about him? About
him next to me?
"That's what I heard," he said. "I'm looking for him too."
A pause. Neither she nor I knew what to say. I couldn't tell what she was
thinking, but I knew I needed to find out why and what he knew. There
weren't that many people wanting Gentry, not that I could figure anyway,
not beyond the ones who hired me, unless the waters here were deeper than
I had thought. And even if they weren't, if he was looking, it was likely
he'd be talking to my client, sooner of later. I didn't want him
mentioning the ladies he'd seen flashing Gentry's photo in bar; at least
not one.
Bobbie finally broke the silence.
"I didn't think you looked the type," she said, trying to sound sarcastic.
He shrugged: "Takes all kinds, I guess."
His leg kept pressing mine. I didn't think he looked the type at all, or
act it either -- not unless, that is, he saw right through me, and fancied
girls who were not really girls. He had that air of brashness, confidence,
of being the guy who gets his way, and gets the gal, too, when it comes to
that. He was, I thought, a man who wouldn't care enough to find someone,
unless he saw something in it for him. I sensed all that, just from the
way he pushed against me, from the way I saw him eye us. But to be sure, I
glanced quickly us, and saw the stubble on his chin, the intense pale
eyes, and glanced away fast, before I caught his gaze, for he was leaning
now, towards Bobbie, and pressing heavily on my shoulder.
"But I don't think Gentry's your type, either, as far as that goes," he
said, after a moment. "So why are you here?"
Bobbie just shrugged.
"This place stays quiet," he said. "Notice that? No cops. Virginia Beach
here, they like their tourists. You see a cop come in this bar, he's in
blue. Someone's had too much to drink, the bouncer needs a hand, that's
when the cops come. Needs a big hand, that is: no one here likes to see
the police. Makes *em nervous. No undercover here; if you keep it inside,
off the Boardwalk, the Beach just doesn't care who's dating who. But even
if they did, you're not the ones they'd send."
I didn't like where this was going. I didn't want him asking about me.
Didn't want him even thinking I was hiding something. That was way too
close for comfort, as he was, still, pressing against me. I couldn't think
of what to tell him. I wanted him to answer me, but couldn't find a way to
take control and turn the conversation, such as it was. For he was still
the only one who was talking.
Staties, maybe?" he continued. "Feds?"
"And who are you?" I croaked at last, voice tight. My voice is not too
deep at best, it rises when I'm nervous, running scared.
"I'm just a guy who's looking for a guy," he said. "An accountant, if you
want to know. Gentry's an interesting fellow."
"Look," said Bobbie. "I've gotta go. It's getting late, nice to meet you,
been a pleasure and all that stuff, but really now, it's time to go."
He laughed. "Come on," he said. "I'm not that bad." He spread his hands, a
mock surrender.
"OK, already, no more Gentry. No big deal. You want to talk about someone
else, OK. About you? About me? Hey, I'll buy another round. We'll go on to
a nicer place. No problem. You want to go, that's fine, too. No worries."
He turned to me. "You want to go?"
"She can do what she wants," Bobbie said, pushing down the booth and out
the other end. The pronoun threw me for an instant, confused, I let her
get too far ahead of me. He sat, unmoving. I tried to wriggle out, but it
was slow -- the skirt was tight, I didn't want to flash.
"Bobbie," I said.
"Don't worry, I'll be fine. I'll take the car," she said. She turned to
him. "You can drop her, can't you?"
I finally struggled free.
"What are you doing?" I hissed at her; I knew that he was looking at my
bottom, just inches from his face, but I had even bigger worries.
She put her finger to her lips: "You need to know what he knows, what he's
doing. It's probably nothing, just a bar bet; maybe he thought Gentry was
his type, who knows. A guy in here, though; well, I wouldn't worry. Even
though he doesn't seem -- Just play along a bit. I'll see you later."
She bent and pecked me, glanced to be sure he saw. "That ought to help
with the disguise," she whispered, and, louder: "Careful with her," she
told him, over my shoulder, and stalked out of the bar.
When I turned to face him, he was grinning.
Most places in The Beach don't open till the summer starts. We walked a
while, not speaking, along Atlantic Ave., looking for a place to stop, or
drink or talk, my mind racing all the while, knowing that when we stopped
he'd have some questions for which I had no answer. I had a biography, an
autobiography, I had to write, and not much time to do it in. He seemed
content to saunter down the moonlit street, past the dark windows, the
buildings dim beneath a navy sky, the blinking street lights, green and
red, the only color. I was happy enough to keep on walking in the empty
night. He stopped a minute at the park, and turned to walk out to the
Boardwalk. I followed.
I must have caught my heel, missed the little half curb there. I tripped,
reached out, grabbed his arm. Somehow, it stayed hooked in his elbow. We
walked like that a while longer. Why? I couldn't say. It felt a little
hard to keep my balance, like I was teetering still. Maybe because the
Boardwalk is a little rough, the winter winds blow sand up from beach,
they don't sweep it until the summer. Or maybe since the night was dark: I
don't know. We walked another block or two or three, it seemed to take
forever; I felt him stop and look, and saw a light behind the hotel
entrance, heard quiet conversation drifting out.
"Let's try here," he said. "You hungry?"
I shook my head.
"Drinks, then," he said.
There were just a handful of tables, a tiny bar. A couple chatted there,
another had the table closest to the picture window looking out at the
beach. The lights were low, candles glimmered behind colored glass. It was
if the world had closed around each paired-off man and woman, they didn't
even bother to look up when we came in. He picked the table farthest in
the corner, held the chair so I could swing myself in. I tucked my legs
together tightly, nylon slid on nylon, hissed. The candle spattered rubies
on the table cloth. The murmurs from the bar, a quiet order to a waiter. I
waited, straining for the smallest signal, wondering what came next. Not
wanting to miss a single second. Not daring to.
I'd learned, years ago, it pays to hold your tongue. Most people hate the
silence, need to fill the void with words. You hardly have to ask a
question. I think he knew that, too, but he broke first.
It was all blind date stuff, I knew it would be, had to be. Stiff and
awkward, trotting out the resume. It had been a long time for me, maybe
for him. And back then, the last time for me, that is, it had been me who
was leaning forward, just a bit too eagerily, hoping for a look down
through the valley on her chest, who let fingers to oh-so-casually brush
against hers.
His name was Chester, Chet, he said. No, not from here, Washington. He
really didn't pick up girls in bars, so he said. Accountants don't do
that, he laughed. He'd been a town a few days, down on business. Yes,
business took him here from time to time.
The drinks came, I sipped. He was thirsty.
I thought it made sense to be a secretary, thought I could play that role,
and listening to him, felt all the more certain that that should be the
way I played this. He liked to be the boss, it seemed, he liked being
smart, sounding smart -- or, really, sounding smarter than whomever he was
with. And to be honest, he was smart, he could carry off that pose with
ease. I let him.
Sitting there with him, dressed as I was, trying not to notice a heavy
knee brushing mine, I didn't feel very smart at all. If he wanted to go on
chatting about this book he'd read and what the Times had said and how
things really worked in D.C., that was just fine with me. It let me kind
of catch my breath and ease a little more into this new skin I was
wearing, the new and painted face that I was putting out into the world.
It's easy for a guy like that to ignore a little secretary. They think
you're kind of dumb, or kind of silly. The guy can humor you, tease just a
little. A second date's not such a good idea, for a guy like him, a girl
like I was playing at. He's after something quick, and if he doesn't get
it, will move on to the next -- do I say fish in the sea? Or so I hoped.
So far, I was OK, the shaking stopped. I had to keep my focus, and that
helped a lot. He knew that we were looking for the same man, but I wanted
him to think he didn't need to worry much about me. I didn't want him
thinking too much about me. Only a little. I made a fine secretary. I
could even type.
It made easier to keep a story straight, too. An "um," a pause, a
hesitation, gave me time to think, to make sure what I said make sense,
and didn't contradict things I already said. I moved my hometown down the
road a bit, the city that I went away to stayed the same. Where I worked
was like the offices of a lawyer that I'd done some jobs for, just before
Mrs. Gentry hired me. I thought a kitten would be a touch too much.
"So what's her name, the lady, back there in the other place," he asked,
after a while. "Is she, ah, your friend?"
He asked it with that knowing little rise of tone that makes the word mean
something different. I felt a sudden hint of tension.
"She's a friend," I said, hoping it was true, hoping I sounded as neutral
and ambiguous as things were between us.
He smiled a second, nodded.
It's funny, how long you can keep talking, and how the talking starts to
drift from this to that, engages you, goes back and forth and spins a sort
of net around you, leads you on, and on. He knew a place to walk along the
docks, a park where Spanish moss made curtains, massive trees stood in the
water. It sounded lovely, though I had not made much room within for
saying things were lovely. I could imagine strolling there. And when I
did, I could imagine it with him. A museum for a rainy day. This painting,
that. You like this music? Heard this band? One of the couples left, the
barman turned some music on, soft and easy. That dark aura of menace that
I had felt swirling around him seemed to melt away in the half-lit
stillness.
"A dance?" he asked.
"I can't," I said.
"Come on," he said. "It's easy. Every girl should dance. I'll show you."
He stood and tugged me gently, till I stood, too, and stepped towards him.
A arm across my back, my hand in his. We twirled slowly on the tiny space
beside the bar, he led me on between the tables, towards the window. We
spun, I saw the moon flash by, the glint of light as the breakers reached
the beach below. The other couple watched. I saw her smile, and twirled
away again. I felt him draw me closer, inch by inch. I felt his warmth, my
hand on his hip, then slipping to the center of his back, the muscles firm
and warm against my forearm. I felt my head begin to move towards his, I
knew my temple would fit beside his cheek. But then the music stopped. The
other couple clapped. He bowed. I blushed.
You can't stand quite that close for long when someone else is watching. A
step apart, a hand falls down along your side, the other body's warmth now
out of reach. I had not realized how close we'd been. I shivered. Chilled
or scared, or something else I couldn't say. I wouldn't say.
"I really think it's time," I said.
"You sure?"
"I think," My voice caught. "I think..."
"Easy," he said. "That's fine. Don't worry. My car's not far, I'll take
you home."
He drove too fast, just as you'd expect a guy like him would be bound to
do, but it seemed to take forever. I closed my eyes and saw us dancing,
saw me dancing, saw me dancing with a man, and felt as if I'd been dancing
by a cliff. Again, I felt my heart thump, as if I was in danger, as if I'd
run from danger. As if I yearned for danger. Or for something.
Somehow, we managed to find Bobbie's place. He stopped the car, jumped
out, ran round to open up my door before I could. I watched him watch me
swing my legs out.
He took a step towards me.
"I had a nice time," he murmured. "You?"
I nodded.
We stood a moment in the moonlight, listening to the waves beyond the
dunes.
"A lovely time," I said. "Thank you so much."
And realized, just as he bent towards me, how much I meant it. His lips
brushed mine. I felt his hand touching my hip. My hand reached out, palm
out, as if to hold him back. He waited, just an instant, for me. I waited,
too; poised on the edge of want and fear and not knowing at all what I
should do. My hand brushed up against his tie. My fingers closed on it.
The slightest tug, I slowly pulled him closer. He kissed me firmly now. My
mouth eased open, my hands floated to his head and held him there. I felt
a glow, like something warm was drifting upwards from my belly.
I couldn't say how long we stayed like that.
to be continued
Nanette
- 03.11.2020
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